


the release of all hope for a better past

by crownedcarl



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 18:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8024497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcarl/pseuds/crownedcarl
Summary: post-series: sylar makes his way back home.





	the release of all hope for a better past

**Author's Note:**

> SIX YEARS LATE TO THE PARTY Y’ALL. i decided to try my hand at peter/sylar while completely disregarding canon and as always, i have zero regrets. if you’re curious, this is set something like three years post-series & sylar is Redeemed...ish. additionally, i have no idea why gabriel & sylar are separate tags, but in the interest of getting my filth to as broad an audience as possible, both have been tagged. beware potential out of character behavior, i guess, given that i marathoned heroes in like three days and started writing this fic immediately after finishing. i owe the title to buddy wakefield's poem [hurling crowbirds at mockingbars](http://buddywakefield.com/hurling-crowbirds-at-mockingbars-hope-is-not-a-course-of-action/).

Sylar leaves Peter at the carnival.

No, that isn’t right. Sylar leaves Peter, but that’s not the end. Come to think of it, Sylar can’t pinpoint an exact beginning and end to their story, bloody and strange as it has been.

There was that first meeting at the high school, but Sylar hadn’t seen Peter, then. He’d seen prey, but even then, he hadn’t _seen_ Peter.

He never could have guessed how their story would end. There was no way to tell that out of the numerous people Sylar would encounter, Peter would be the final piece of the puzzle, the one that fit unlike any other.

Sylar leaves Peter at the carnival, standing alone and forlorn, but it has to be done. At the end of all things, Peter is better off.

-

Years later, Sylar thinks of him, but Sylar is dead. He’s been dead for some time, now, and Gabriel Gray is once more.

Gabriel Gray leads a lonely existence, and how strange it is, he muses, that life could change so drastically yet return to the same tedium that he grew familiar with before the appearance of his powers. He can no longer stand the watchmaking. He can no longer pretend to be content to live that life.

Gabriel leaves New York and he doesn’t intend to come back, but perhaps he underestimated the value of destiny, of fate. There have been many twists and turns to his and Peter’s story, but none of them happy, none of them truly final. His last goodbye feels unfinished.

New York, upon reflection, is the same as ever. Peter must be laying low, because he is difficult to find. They are all difficult to find, nowadays, after Claire’s stunt. Wherever Peter is, whatever he’s doing, Gabriel cannot find him.

It saddens him, but sadness is a blessing. Gabriel never thought he’d regain the capacity for feeling, but here he is, standing on a street corner beneath a gray sky and wondering if, perhaps, Peter doesn’t want to be found. He’d understand that, but five years spent together in a dreamworld is a hard thing to forget. Gabriel has thought of that time often since they broke out.

Peter forgave him, in the end, didn’t he? He came as close to forgiveness as he ever could, Gabriel supposes, but things change. People change. Peter might have remembered his righteous anger and realized that Gabriel, for all of his good intentions, changed too late.

On the street corner, everything is loud and crowded, but Gabriel recognizes the touch to his arm as if it hasn’t been years since Peter touched him. “Walk with me,” he says, and Gabriel doesn’t dare look at him as they stride through the crowd, down the street and into a coffee shop.

Coffee seems appropriate. It seems like something long-lost friends would do after a great separation, but Peter can hardly be considered his friend. Gabriel has done too much bad for Peter to be able to gloss it all over and offer him a blank slate.

Peter is older, but he wears his age well. His hair is the same ridiculous length as last time, but his eyes are harder and his clothes are looser on him, as if he lost weight and simply never bothered to buy fitting clothes. “I wondered when you’d show,” Gabriel comments, letting Peter order two black coffees. “I wouldn’t blame you if you hadn’t.”

He gets no response other than Peter glancing at him with a frown, except it seems somehow forced, somehow reluctant. Peter spent five years with him, but reconciling the sinner with the saint must be a difficult thing to do. “Yeah,” he eventually says, shaking his head and leading Gabriel to a table at the very back. “Almost didn’t come.”

It doesn’t quite sting, that remark, but it...aches, maybe. Aches in Gabriel’s stomach.

There is an oppressive silence blanketing them as they sit. Gabriel doesn’t dare break it. He thinks it would be kind to offer Peter the first word, letting him set the terms. Gabriel expects nothing of him, least of all his understanding, but he hopes that Peter might accept his apologies.

He has many things to apologize for.

“I know you’ve changed,” Peter says, staring down at his cup, fingers laced together, elbows resting together on the table. His voice is harsh, his inflections less so. “Trust me, I know. But you’re still-”

You’re still the man that killed my brother. Gabriel hears the unspoken end of that sentence.

“Yes,” he agrees, somewhat stiltedly. “I am. But I’m - more, Peter. I’m more than my mistakes. But that isn’t why I’m here.”

“No?”

Peter’s peering curiously at him now, and there’s a haggard edge to his appearance. Maybe he isn’t sleeping enough. Gabriel’s dreams have been dark, lately. He thinks he can understand that.

“No,” Gabriel repeats, and he smiles slightly, hoping that Peter will return it. It doesn’t happen immediately, but the corner of Peter’s mouth quirks up, surprised. “I wanted to see you. To apologize. I know,” he adds, seeing Peter’s eyeroll, “You’ve heard it a thousand times, quite literally, but you’ve never believed it, have you?”

“Sylar,” Peter says warily, “Look, I’m not trying to blame you forever, alright? It’s not going to change anything for either one of us. It’s just…”

“I know,” Gabriel says, lowering his voice to something approaching gentle. “I know what I’ve done to you. I know it’s unforgivable, but I’m not asking for forgiveness. All I want,” he goes on, “Is for you to _know_ that I am sincerely sorry for every last thing I ever did to you. All the pain…”

He trails off, taking a sip of his coffee. “It can’t be erased,” Gabriel admits. “But I was hoping that after all this time, you might be able to see that I’m trying. I want to get to know you, Peter. I want to help you. It can’t be easy, the way things are.”

Peter snorts, seemingly surprised by it, carding a hand through his long hair. “You’re not wrong,” he confesses. “Things are bad, especially in the city. At least they don’t want to burn us at the stake, anymore.”

Gabriel smiles. “I’m staying,” he informs Peter, “For a while, at least. I thought I could give you my address, in case you ever wanted…”

He hesitates, meeting Peter’s eyes, forcing himself to look away. “In case you ever wanted someone who understands,” Gabriel finishes, scrawling his address on a napkin, adding his number, too. He slides it over to Peter and watches him pick it up and weigh it in his hand, as if he’s considering throwing it in the garbage.

Peter puts it in his pocket and nods.

-

Months pass without word from Peter, and then comes the day.

The anniversary of Nathan Petrelli’s death is a hard day for Peter.

Gabriel stays away. He doesn’t text, doesn’t call, doesn’t leave a message. It feels horribly insensitive to offer his platitudes when he dealt the killing blow. If Peter wants to talk, he’ll come. If he doesn’t, Gabriel will respect his need for solitude.

Minutes past midnight, there’s a knock at his door. Peter falls over the threshold and into Gabriel’s arms, and he’s wet from the rain, freezing all over.

He’s crying, gripping Gabriel tightly around the back, beating his fists weakly against Gabriel’s body. “You did this,” Peter rasps out, but he seems to deflate all at once when Gabriel says “Yes, I did,” and from there, Peter allows Gabriel to guide him onto the couch, shivering under the fluffy towel Gabriel places around his shoulders.

Peter’s grief is ugly. It’s devastating. Gabriel cannot help him.

“Every time I think I’m over it,” Peter says, head in his hands, “It’s the _day,_ and it hits me all over again. He’s gone,” Peter whispers, his voice cracking, “My big brother is _gone._ ”

Gabriel says nothing in response. It would be cruel to say anything at all.

Peter stays the night, shivering and sniffling on the couch, and Gabriel pauses nervously in the doorway on his way to the kitchen as the offer falls from his mouth: “Would you like to sleep with me?” he asks, quietly adding “I doubt you want to be alone right now.”

“What do you know?” Peter fires back, but as angry as he sounds, there’s something defeated to his voice, too, and he sits up after a moment, unable to meet Gabriel’s eyes. “I - yeah. Please.”

It should be stranger than this, sharing a bed with your brother’s murderer, but Peter puts no distance between them. His forehead is pressed against Gabriel’s sternum, and for a moment, he forgets to breathe. Peter shivers and comes as close as possible, until Gabriel puts a gentle hand on his hip and says “Don’t,” because Peter’s proximity is too much. Gabriel will reveal too much if he allows Peter closer.

“Why not?” Peter asks, and Gabriel isn’t sure they’re having the same conversation, anymore.

His mouth is dry. “You’re angry with me,” Gabriel says. “You hate me.”

“I am,” Peter agrees, “I do, but I - I don’t. Please. Sylar-”

Please. Gabriel softens under that word. He doesn’t soften entirely, though. His hand finds Peter’s jaw, and it’s a terrible thing, trying to be a better man when Peter knows all of his past misdeeds and sins. It’s terrible that Peter was on the receiving end of all his madness.

“No,” Gabriel says, “Not tonight. Go to sleep, Peter. We’ll talk in the morning.”

As disappointed as Peter seems, he comes across as relieved, too, nodding against Gabriel’s chest, laying his head there. The rasp of his breath evens out, eventually, leaving Gabriel to the darkness and the silence.

-

Gabriel wakes alone, which alarms him.

He feels disoriented and oddly sorrowful in the grip of morning’s gloom, but there is a shuffle in his kitchen and the smell of coffee reaches him in the hallway, and Gabriel is relieved to find Peter still there.

Whatever compelled him to stay, Gabriel doesn’t know, but he’s glad for it.

“Hey,” Peter says, glancing over his shoulder at him, wearing one of Gabriel’s old shirts. It’s gray and soft, ratty at the bottom, but comfortable enough that Gabriel never threw it away. Peter seems somewhat embarrassed to be seen wearing it, but that hardly makes sense. His own clothes must have been wet and cold to wear all through the night.

“Good morning,” Gabriel greets him, sitting down at the table, amused by Peter’s darting eyes. He’s nervous, but what for? “Have you been awake long?”

“Nah,” Peter mutters, scratching at the back of his head, all this anxious energy leaving him fluttering all over the kitchen. “Borrowed some of your stuff, if that’s alright. Kind of barged in on you without a plan.”

“You don’t say,” Gabriel murmurs, but it isn’t unkind. Peter’s surprised smile means that he didn’t misstep. “I don’t mind, really. You needed someone. I was happy to help.”

He was all too happy. Peter chuckles hoarsely as he joins Gabriel at the table. “I came off kind of rude,” he says, eyes flickering from the table, to Gabriel, then back to the table again. “I didn’t mean to unload on you like I did. It’s just...a hard time for me, man. I still miss him.”

“Of course you do,” Gabriel says, “I understand.”

“But you don’t,” Peter interjects, his voice colored with frustration. “Nathan’s gone and it _sucks._ My life _sucks_ without him in it, Sylar! Do you know what it’s like to have something happen to me that makes me want to dial his number before I remember he’s not there to answer, anymore?”

Gabriel doesn’t respond. He doesn’t think Peter wants him to. “It’s just,” Peter says again, his voice tripping over a dozen emotions. “Shit, I miss him. I miss him so bad, and it’s…”

Peter is tired of his apologies, isn’t he? Gabriel doubts he has much more to offer, but Peter wasn’t looking for an apology, last night. Perhaps he’s misjudged the situation, but maybe what Peter is looking for is this: Gabriel’s hand covering his own, squeezing Peter’s fingers.

“Forget it,” Peter mutters, but his hand relaxes beneath Gabriel’s own. “I’m not mad at you. Really. Some things just take a long time to get over.”

That isn’t the whole truth, but Gabriel can sense that it isn’t an outright lie, either, so he lets it go.

“Can I ask something of you?”

Peter raises his head, blinking at him. His eyes are red. “I don’t use that name anymore,” Gabriel says, “Sylar. It’s Gabriel, now. Just Gabriel.”

He hasn’t asked anything, really, but Peter’s expression softens. He nods, withdrawing his hand from Gabriel’s. “Sure thing,” he says, “Gabriel. Huh.”

“Huh,” Gabriel echoes, and the silence between them becomes an amicable thing.

-

Peter’s visits are infrequent. Gabriel can’t claim to be a busy man, these days, and the long days seem much longer without Peter at his kitchen table or on his couch, but he has no right to ask for his company. Truthfully, Gabriel is afraid to be the first one to reach out, but maybe that’s his first mistake.

“You have my number,” Peter points out, shrugging, twirling spaghetti around his fork. “You do realize that means it’s cool to call me, right?”

“Oh,” Gabriel says, feeling as if they’ve crossed some invisible line. He feels as if they’re doing something terrible. “Yes, of course. I’ll be sure to call.”

“Whatever,” Peter says, but he’s smiling, slight and crooked. Later that night, before he leaves, his hand brushes Gabriel’s, and if he was still a child, Gabriel would think of it as a miracle, or perhaps a beginning.

-

He thinks he might be able to place his and Peter’s beginning and, even now, Gabriel is certain that he can predict their end, but the middle is where he’s left feeling perplexed.

Their middle is late-night Chinese takeout and sharing a bed on weekends after Peter’s shift ends. Their middle is Peter’s favorite soap migrating into Gabriel’s bathroom. Their middle is a strange, fragile little thing that Gabriel will never take for granted.

-

All things must come to an end, but there’s a certain gratitude in knowing that their journey has just begun.

Peter is angry - shouting, in fact, over something silly, but he’s been stretched thin at work for days on end and Gabriel hasn’t been very sensitive, but once Peter runs out of steam, he stares at Gabriel as if it’s his first time seeing him.

“Asshole,” he spits, “I can’t even be angry at you, can I?”

Gabriel doesn’t understand what he means at all. He doesn’t understand it one bit, not until Peter fists his hands in Gabriel’s shirt and makes Gabriel meet him halfway in a kiss.

Oh. Should he have seen this coming?

“Peter,” Gabriel breathes, his hands beneath Peter’s shirt; how did they end up there? “You amaze me, you know that?”

“Shut up,” Peter hisses, sounding fierce and desperate and very vulnerable, all at once. “God, _Gabriel,_ shut up.”

He shuts up. Gabriel kisses Peter and coaxes Peter’s frenzy down into something softer and gentler and slower, his hands falling from Peter’s waist to his hips, careful not to touch bare skin again. It would be far too easy to lose control.

“Don’t make this difficult,” Peter says, staring up at Gabriel. “I _know_ who you are, I know what you’ve _done,_ and I don’t _care._ Can you live with that?”

Gabriel takes a minute to decide, but the answer is obvious. “For you,” he says, watching Peter’s blooming smile, “Yes.”

-

Gabriel is undeserving of Peter’s forgiveness. He is undeserving of a lot of things, but Peter offers them and doesn’t let Gabriel say no for the sake of martyrdom.

Peter has forgiven him and if he is capable of that much, maybe the forgiveness Gabriel should seek is his own. He has done terrible, unspeakable things, but perhaps it’s time to let it go.

Is this love, he wonders, watching Peter’s face change, his lashes sticky-wet against his cheeks, his mouth open and gasping - is this love, Peter’s thighs trembling with strain, his fingers slip-sliding down Gabriel’s arm and shoulders to gain purchase?

“Easy,” Gabriel soothes, but Peter quivers around Gabriel’s cock buried so deep within him; quivers as if he’s deathly afraid, but he’s flushed all over, breathing hot and heavy against Gabriel’s temple. “Easy, come on - you’ve never-”

Peter has never. Neither has Gabriel.

“God,” Peter huffs, nose bumping Gabriel’s cheek, his fingers tangling in Gabriel’s hair. “Shit, it - hurts,” he chokes out, “But it’s not bad. Not-”

“Not too much?” Gabriel guesses, his own voice tight and breathless. His hands are on Peter’s hips, keeping him steady, allowing him to simply take the experience in. It’s a foreign thing, Peter extending such trust to him, sighing shaky-soft as Gabriel fists his cock and kisses his cheek. “I want-” he stutters, Peter’s forehead resting against his own, “I _need_ \- can I-?”

Peter says “Yeah,” in a gravelly voice, shivering from the inside as Gabriel begins to move.

It’s an exquisite, unparalleled feeling. Peter’s body is warm and silken, and he cries out sharply as Gabriel puts him on his back, and through the night, Peter makes a dozen noises for him: he groans and whimpers and laughs so openly that Gabriel can’t help but join him, and for the first time in his life, Gabriel thinks that perhaps he understands the meaning of home.

-

In the morning, Peter wakes him by shifting restlessly. After a moment of observing him, all these words begin to spill out of Gabriel. “I never thought,” he muses, fingers drifting across Peter’s chest, “I never imagined…”

Peter’s knee bumps against his own. He is still half-asleep, drowsy and lovely. “Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Gabriel murmurs, his eyes drifting shut. “What I do or don’t deserve.”

“Damn right,” Peter slurs, and Gabriel huffs a laugh against his throat, allowing himself to feel the joy so fully that it aches in his stomach. “I’m trying to sleep,” Peter complains, “Save the midlife crisis for later, yeah?”

Easy is the wrong word for this, but maybe natural is a better fit. Their relationship has been a natural progression, hasn’t it, from animosity to understanding to acceptance?

“Yeah,” Gabriel agrees quietly, his fingers trailing up Peter’s spine.

The gray morning light spills across their bodies. At peace, Gabriel drifts back to sleep.


End file.
